Welcome back to Amurica

On the final leg of our flight back, we had to give up our reserved seats because of our late arrival. Thanks to the nonsense over unloading and re-loading our baggage at the Atlanta airport, we made our flight only because we received permission of the pilot to board at the last moment. I was very, very tired from both the trip itself, and from jet lag. That was bad enough, but then I hit the jackpot with seatmate selection: I got a France-hating, New Orleans-hating Republican member of the armed forces. He was also a golfer, but I did my best not to hold that against him.

At least he was polite. I changed the subject whenever I could, but I had to hear about how no one should feel sorry for the people in New Orleans, and that the French people may have some good traits, but, you know...they betrayed us and are of no use to us. He went on and on, and I was grateful that the flight was only an hour in length. My patience was wearing thin.

What a rude shock, after spending two weeks listening to French and British people discuss how completely puzzling it is that George W. Bush is supposedly the president of the United States, and how alarmed they are at what is going on. I needed a little time to adjust, but the Cult of Bush assaulted me as soon as I hit land. Coming home to the unseasonably warm weather would have been bad enough.